Chapter 5
Leo
I step out of the bakery, and the door closes behind me with a soft jingle that feels final.
Not slammed.
Not dramatic.
Just closed.
The morning air hits my face, cool and a little damp, carrying the smell of car exhaust and hot concrete rather than butter and yeast. I stand there for a second, hand still hovering where the handle was, like if I wait long enough, it might open again, and Tess will lean out and say,
Actually, come back. I changed my mind.
She doesn’t.
Of course, she doesn’t.
I take a breath. Then another. Then I realize I’m smiling like an idiot. I don’t wipe it off.
I walk down the block with my hands in my pockets, the sound of the bakery, metal clatter, Gwen’s laugh, the low thrum of ovens still ringing in my ears like a song I don’t want to end. I replay the last ten minutes on a loop.
Come back tomorrow. Or don’t.
I don’t know which version of that sentence scares me more.
I pass a storefront with reflective glass and catch my own reflection.
I look different. Same body, same face, same expensive shoes I probably shouldn’t have worn inside a kitchen, but something has shifted.
There’s flour on my sleeve. A faint smear on my pants.
I don’t brush it off. It feels earned. Even if it isn’t. Not yet.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Whatever it is can wait. Everything else in my life has always demanded immediacy, emails, calls, deals that need attention, but this? This deserves quiet.
I keep walking.
The city feels louder than it did an hour ago.
Cars are honking. Someone shouting into a phone.
A delivery truck backfiring like a gunshot.
I realize how insulated I usually am from this kind of noise.
My apartment has glass thick enough to mute the world.
My car seals me inside leather and silence.
The bakery didn’t.
The bakery was chaos. Controlled, purposeful chaos. Heat and sound and movement and people talking over each other because timing mattered more than politeness.
I liked that.
God help me, I liked being told where to stand.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait for the light, replaying Tess’s face when I said I wanted the job. The skepticism. The assessment. The way she didn’t laugh, but didn’t soften either.
She’d looked at me like a problem to solve, not a spectacle.
No one ever does that.
Most people see me and immediately decide which category I belong in. Asset. Opportunity. Brand risk. Rich guy. Asshole. Occasionally, savior, which is worse.
Tess had looked at me like a liability with potential.
I grin again, quieter this time.
The light changes. I cross.
My phone buzzes again. Then again. I sigh and pull it out.
Five missed calls.
Marissa.
Three texts.
MARISSA: Leo???
MARISSA: I saw the Mavericks story. Are you seriously at some bakery??
I lock the screen without responding.
Marissa is… a lot. She was a chapter, not a future. I told her that. Repeatedly. Kindly. Clearly. She just never accepted that an ending could exist without her permission.
I tuck the phone away and keep walking.
The farther I get from the bakery, the more my chest tightens, not with panic, but with something dangerously close to hope.
I shouldn’t want this.
This makes no sense.
I have a penthouse I barely sleep in. A job I could walk away from and still never worry about money again. A network of people who would kill for ten minutes of my time.
And I want to scrub prep tables.
I want to be told my hands are wrong.
I want to learn how to fold dough without tearing it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pass a coffee shop and almost go in out of habit, then stop. I already had coffee. I don’t need more. For once, my body feels… used. Not depleted, but spent in a good way. Like I did something instead of thinking about doing something.
That feeling scares me.
Because once you know what real work feels like, it’s hard to go back to pretending.
I reach my car and unlock it, sliding into the driver’s seat. The interior smells like leather and something vaguely citrusy, designed by someone who’s never cleaned a grease trap in their life.
I sit there with my hands on the steering wheel, not starting the engine. Ella Langley plays on the radio.
Tomorrow.
Or don’t.
She didn’t say come back for sure. She didn’t say you’re hired. She said, “Think.”
I think about Gwen’s face when she found out I won’t get a salary. The way she looked like she was witnessing a crime against capitalism.
I think about Tess’s voice when she said, "You will not be special."
I start the car.
Traffic crawls. I don’t mind. It gives me time to think, which is ironic, because thinking is what I’m trying to stop doing.
I’ve spent my entire adult life thinking. Strategizing. Optimizing. Projecting outcomes like the future is a spreadsheet I can control.
The bakery didn’t care about my projections.
It cared whether I was in the way.
That might be the most honest feedback I’ve gotten in years.
My phone buzzes again. I glance at it at a red light.
Marissa. Again.
This time, there’s a voicemail notification.
I don’t listen.
I don’t have the energy to manage someone else’s emotions right now. For once, I want to sit with my own.
The light turns green. I drive.
By the time I get home, the sun is rising high, and the sky is streaked with pink and gold. My building’s lobby smells like expensive flowers, replaced before they wilt. The doorman greets me by name.
“Good day, Mr. Ashford.”
I nod, distracted, and head for the elevator.
Up. Up. Up.
The doors open onto my floor, silent as a mausoleum.
My apartment unlocks with a soft beep, and the lights adjust automatically to whatever the algorithm thinks I want.
I don’t.
I kick off my shoes and drop my keys on the counter harder than necessary. The sound echoes. The space feels too big. Too empty.
I grab a glass of water and drink it standing up, then lean back against the island and let my mind drift back. Back to the heat of the bakery, the way the floor was worn smooth from decades of feet moving with purpose.
Tess had said, "Come back tomorrow”, like it was nothing.
Like it was everything.
I wonder what she thinks of me now that I’m gone. If she’s already dismissed me as another rich guy with a savior complex. If she’s rolling her eyes with Gwen, saying he won’t be back.
The thought stings.
Good. It should.
I want this to matter.
I shower, scrubbing flour off my arms, off my neck, watching it swirl down the drain like evidence. When I’m done, I stand there longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders.
I don’t feel clean.
I feel… reset.
I dress in a plain t-shirt and sweats and collapse onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s not Marissa.
It’s a calendar reminder.
Dinner Alistair / Cipriani 8:00 PM
I snort.
No.
I delete it without a second thought.
The silence afterward is… strange. Usually, my evenings are scheduled down to the minute. Tonight, there’s nothing. No expectations. No performance.
Just me and the waiting.
I wonder what Tess’s life has been like.
I’ve earned money. Titles. Reputation.
But have I ever earned trust?
Have I ever earned a place?
The idea that she might let me back into that kitchen, not because of my name, not because of what I can offer, but because I showed up again, makes my chest ache in a way I don’t recognize.
I check my phone once more.
No messages from Tess. Of course not.
I don’t expect any.
Tomorrow.
I set an alarm for 4:30 a.m.
Then, after a second’s hesitation, I set another for 4:15.
If she says no, I’ll take it.
If she says yes…
I close my eyes, the smell of yeast and sugar lingering in my memory like a promise.
Tomorrow, I’ll find out if I get to earn it.